A Good Way of Running Away
by spatula spatula
Summary: "He thinks this is my excuse, and maybe it is sometimes." (CJ/Toby)


TITLE: A Good Way of Running Away  
AUTHOR: tahlia (dayglo_parker@yahoo.com)  
CATEGORY: CJ/Toby  
RATING: PG-13  
SPOILERS: none  
ARCHIVE: just ask first ;)  
SUMMARY: "He thinks this is my excuse, and maybe  
it is sometimes."  
DISCLAIMER: They're Aaron's, not mine.  
  
  
A GOOD WAY OF RUNNING AWAY.  
  
  
  
  
There, in front of me, Donna is popping the cork on a  
bottle of champagne. It's the expensive stuff Sam  
brought, the one he promised we'd use for the toast  
and for the victory celebration, but Josh is standing  
too close to Donna and half of it has already been  
spent on him.  
  
"He's leaving, you know."  
  
We're looking at Josh, drenched in alcohol and  
smiling like a fool, but Toby's mind is elsewhere. I  
gulp down the remainders of my cheaper champagne and  
try not to join him.  
  
"I heard. Congress."  
  
Right now, I'm pretending there was a grapevine and  
that everyone knows.  
  
We work in the White House and tonight was like four  
years ago, only this time it was more of a cliché  
-- this time, our job are on the line. Are. Were.  
Still are. I'm still trying to get the tenses  
straight.  
  
"Think he'll run next year?"  
  
I'm wearing these three loose bracelets on my wrist,  
metal ones my niece got me for my birthday, and when  
I tip the glass vertically to chase out anything  
remaining, they come clanging down my arm. You can  
barely hear them, though, over all the shouting and  
Marvin Gaye.  
  
"He'll have the President's support," and it feels so  
good to say that, to be sure. I think I'm sure. I  
know I'm sure. I assure myself that I'm sure. I doubt  
my own assurance. I need another round to chase away  
those doubts, I decide.  
  
"And mine." He mumbles this, but I can hear it,  
because it means a lot to so many people.  
  
Honestly, I'm not in the mood to talk about this.  
Right now, I'm adopting a "get so drunk you can't  
remember" policy of dealing with this. It worked last  
time, and tomorrow I only have reporters to face, not  
the White House Counsel, and I'm reassured.  
  
I grab another. He clicks his tongue. "I wouldn't."  
  
From him, of all people. I say as much, except I call  
him the Prohibition police, I think, and it doesn't  
come out nearly as eloquent and witty as it sounded  
in my head.  
  
"You've got a thing to read?" It's not him asking,  
it's him reminding me of my job. "A statement or  
something."  
  
"Or something."  
  
"An introduction, perhaps."  
  
"No call yet," I whisper, like it's a big secret how  
a democratic election process works or who's the  
winner here. "I know not what I am going to say."  
  
Alcohol affects my sentence-structuring abilities.  
  
"We went over the language this morning." He is,  
after all, the sensible drunk.  
  
Someone started a conga line and they're all dancing  
around like idiots. I would be, too, if I didn't  
already know. He's staring at me as I stare at them,  
and I wonder if this is what it felt like, when  
everyone else was blind and he knew everything.  
  
"I think I'm plastered," I say truthfully, seriously.  
  
This makes him laugh, and I watch his nervous tension  
drain away. I smile at appropriate times, chuckle  
once or twice, but he's had two weeks to process this  
information and I only found out by accident this  
morning, so I can hardly be expected to be filled  
with mirth.  
  
He recovers and glances back at everyone. "They'll  
get over it." It's nonchalant and rather blunt and  
completely true, and that's what hurts. That he'll  
leave and everything will be out of balance for a  
while, but we'll recover. We are to be thankful for  
staying together for so long, unprecedented, and Josh  
should be thankful Leo hasn't fired him already.  
  
I can't rationalize, intellectualize, or  
compartmentalize. I don't want to think.  
  
"Ten bucks says Josh wakes up tomorrow and doesn't  
remember a thing." He's throwing back another shot of  
something, punctuating our bet.  
  
"Twenty if it's at Donna's."  
  
I smile and we don't shake because it's not a real  
bet. It's never a real bet, because somehow the  
consequences feel tangible sometimes. We smile and  
it's our silent communication. Like how he's  
inclining his head toward the mass of people and this  
is his invitation to dance.  
  
"Appearances." A nonexistent word tonight, but I  
throw it out there anyway. For old time's sake, in  
case the celebration hasn't killed them already, I'm  
putting it out there to be trampled on.  
  
"My gift to the American public," he amends. To keep  
you from drinking, he means.  
  
I preach appearances, but not tonight. Fuck, not  
tonight, of all nights, with this bombshell on the  
tip of my tongue. I remember his arm around my waist,  
the uncharacteristic way he wrapped his arms around  
my body and expressed joy. Screw appearances.  
  
I take his hand.  
  
Sam broke up the conga line, he claims, to preserve  
dignity, and he's gathering around his friends and  
colleagues. I stand at the edge of it all, Toby at my  
elbow, and try not to pretend I know all the words  
about to tumble out his mouth.  
  
I have to take hold of the podium to steady myself  
and no one notices this revelation or that gesture.  
It feels good to say it again, to slip on this  
familiar skin.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United  
States."  
  
*  
  
Sometimes I find that I get so wrapped up in thought  
that I forget to notice how I got somewhere. I fall  
onto his couch with no knowledge of leaving the hotel  
or getting into a car or climbing the stairs.  
  
"He thanked us."  
  
Behind me, he's fixing coffee. I know without turning  
around because I can smell the familiar blend I left  
here a month ago.  
  
"We worked on this campaign -- we work *for* him,  
period -- remember?"  
  
"I meant Sam." There's a pause, wherein he ceases  
activity and contemplates this. "Toby?"  
  
"We're his friends." And he sounds like he's trying  
to convince himself, just to be sure.  
  
Toby's coffee is always bitter, but I've learned to  
stop asking for a little cream or sugar because I  
hate the face he makes. I take small, tentative sips,  
as if it were an espresso, because honestly, they  
have the same consistency, almost.  
  
"Who else knew?"  
  
This is the territory I wanted to avoid earlier, and,  
yet, here is me, diving head first into oblivion.  
  
"You, me, the Congressman." I glare, and he drops it.  
"The President, I'm sure, Leo, too."  
  
He's burned out, I heard him tell Toby, not from lack  
of motivation; we're the glass ceiling and there's  
Sam Seaborn, barreling into it full force. He threw  
around words like 'opportunity' and 'change,' but  
it's all a blur now. I'm not sure anymore what  
exactly was said.  
  
"Life goes on."  
  
I'm not entirely sure I can remember if we won or  
not. I'm pretty sure we did.  
  
"How come I can't-" The thought is in the forefront,  
but I've got to keep it from running away. "We  
stopped being people, you know. I can't remember  
when."  
  
There's a crease in his forehead, a Sam Seaborn-sized  
crease.  
  
"A unit. We're a unit. Not," I'm tired, "not distinct  
personalities anymore, just one smooth, functioning  
machine." More coffee, and it's colder now. "Life  
goes on."  
  
He's, I can't tell, he's kneading my shoulder.  
Massaging the muscles in my back with one hand and  
holding his coffee mug in another. It's amazing that  
he can multitask, and I can barely put sensible  
sentences together.  
  
"He's a good speechwriter."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I mean, *really* good, Toby."  
  
"I know."  
  
I should be so fucking miserable that this machine is  
losing its moral center, that idealism is leaving out  
the backdoor and stepping in for a retiring  
Congressman, but I can't. I don't, I mean, I don't.  
I'm mixing verbs, helping verbs, a Freudian slip, I  
hope not.  
  
"You're going to be writing a book, and he's going to  
run for President."  
  
He huffs, "Maybe," at the prospect of the task.  
  
I roll my neck, exhausted, unwilling to talk anymore,  
and this is my invitation. He tastes like alcohol,  
understandably; this bitter coffee, regrettably;  
sorrow, as to be expected. The window is open, I  
notice for the first time how cold it truly is in  
this apartment, and I'm apprehensive.  
  
He's asking with his eyes. Making no motions,  
"Appearances," and he simply gets up and shuts the  
window. The drapes flutter from the brief motion, and  
the light from the streetlights outside turn him into  
a silhouette.  
  
"What?" I must look pensive.  
  
"He's leaving in January."  
  
My voice is a whisper and he tramples on it. "No."  
  
"No?" I'm hopeful, if only for a brief second, and  
slightly confused.  
  
I take his outstretched hand and he languidly pulls  
me to my feet. It might have looked romantic and  
fluid if intoxication hadn't made me stumble and I  
wasn't awkward when it came to this. Lately, I've  
been so out of practice.  
  
"No?" I repeat.  
  
He puts his finger on my lips, they're salty, and  
this is as close to explicit communication as he'll  
ever get. "Not a work thing."  
  
It's always a work thing, I want to shout it at the  
top of my lungs, or an issue, shout it from the top  
of the Washington Monument, or political, but I'm too  
drunk to worry about the intangibles in life.  
  
This taste in my mouth, it's familiar, like a smoky  
New York bar.  
  
*  
  
Obligations: now there's a word I hate.  
  
"I'm not in the habit of doing this, you know."  
  
"Okay."  
  
He's nodding, but doesn't seem to care. I wouldn't  
either, if some stranger in a bar in the middle of a  
Tuesday afternoon spilled their guts to me. But here  
I am, and here he is, and that's exactly what I'm  
doing.  
  
"It's just that I'm about to get fired, I think, I  
feel obligated to tell someone."  
  
He raises his eyebrows. "No friends?" There's a smile  
in there, I think, somewhere between the scotch and  
the ice cubes.  
  
"At work, sure." I'm feeling the need to justify  
myself to this man, and I haven't checked out the  
most important feature. "But I opened my mouth and no  
one really feels sorry for me."  
  
Gold is the same color as his alcohol, and I'm to his  
right, so I can't make the distinction. It doesn't  
matter, because something about him is bothering me,  
something I can't put my finger on.  
  
"Did you tell the truth?"  
  
He's engaging me in conversation, I'm shocked.  
  
"That matters now?" He shrugs indifferently. I motion  
for the bartender. "To be honest, I don't think so."  
  
"You lied to your boss?"  
  
I shake my head. "I may have insinuated that her  
husband is an asshole and is exerting undue influence  
on her, and that *I'm* running the political message  
behind this campaign, not him, and he has no right to  
barge his way into *my* area and tell *me* how to do  
*my* job."  
  
He processes this, and I notice that I've rambled,  
again, and lost sight of his hand, which is fishing  
in his pocket for some bills. "And is he?"  
  
I order another round for myself. "Sure. But  
hindsight tells me that since I've never met the man,  
I'm not properly prepared to make that kind of  
assessment about him." He nods. "But I'm sure he's an  
asshole."  
  
"I'm sure," and he's chuckling, and I'm wondering  
what joke I've missed.  
  
I'm eager to talk about someone else besides me. "So  
what brings *you* here?"  
  
He contemplates several variations before he decides  
on one that he likes. "It's...complex."  
  
Is it the alcohol, or the fact that I'm a complete  
stranger, that's making this man not so receptive to  
me or my conversational attempts? "Complex," I  
repeat, spitting it. And here, I thought I might  
actually get lucky.  
  
I throw back my round quicker than I expected, and  
when he sees me motion for the bartender again, it's  
not hard to spot the worry in his eyes. "Take it from  
me, getting wasted in the middle of the afternoon is  
not the way to get your job back."  
  
I baulk. "Who says there's a job to *get* back?"  
  
"I'm just saying." He stops, censoring himself,  
creasing his forehead in what I think is thought, and  
then he makes a decision and blurts it out before he  
can think, "I'll drive you home."  
  
Huh? It's the 'stranger' part that's hung me up here.  
I might have said that out loud, I'm not sure, but  
he's answering me back.  
  
"How much have you had to drink already? Surely you  
can't drive like this, and I doubt you're going to  
have money left for a cab, so." He might have looked  
sincere if he wasn't so damned serious. "Let's go."  
  
I'm fresh out of graduate school, I reminded myself.  
I've been in this city for less than two months, and  
already I'm getting into a car with Mr. Goodbar.  
Across the country, my mother is throwing a fit.  
  
"Let's go," I agree.  
  
I try to get up eloquently, but when I stumble he's  
there with an arm around my waist, and through the  
electricity between us I see this glint of gold. Time  
stops. I feel like I'd rather crumble into heap on  
the bar room floor, if it wasn't so infested with  
bacteria and other unknown organisms.  
  
"Your wife won't mind?"  
  
He shakes his head, and I think he might slip the  
piece of jewelry off and throw it into a shot glass  
for effect. He's not pleased, apparently, with the  
arrangement. I make this assumption not because I'm a  
people person, I am a people person but certainly not  
this insightful, but because we've got this silent  
thing between us and him shaking his head means... I  
can't remember what it means.  
  
"I didn't catch your name," he suggests.  
  
Everyone in California calls me Claudia. In New York,  
I've become, "CJ."  
  
"Toby," and I think he'd offer his hand if I wasn't  
in danger of collapse. Toby. I've never known a Toby  
before. He's smiling again, at that private joke I'm  
not allowed to know, and I feel sheepish.  
  
At some high school, my former boss is taking the  
stage; she'll shake the hands I told her to shake,  
and she'll make the sound bites I'm supposed to be  
directing. He calls a cab before I can blink, because  
I think he's a part of this city -- that there isn't  
a place where Toby stops and New York begins -- and  
the cab drivers know that. Me, I don't belong here.  
  
"I'm not in the habit," I trail off.  
  
I tell him my address and he tells the cab driver.  
"Politics makes strange bedfellows."  
  
"Yeah." The cab turns left, and I'm on his left and  
feeling woozy, and I come crashing into him. Not  
really crashing, my head rests on his shoulder for a  
split second, but it feels like I'm crashing.  
Crashing and burning. "Strange."  
  
"What is?"  
  
I was only repeating his word, I begin to tell him,  
trying to ignore that my head was on your shoulder  
and I don't know you and it felt kind of nice,  
regardless. Strange, that I could have worked for  
movie stars or producers and movie studios, and here  
I am making a candidate for state Senator look good  
for teachers and a group of second graders on the  
other side of the country. Was; I *was* making her  
look good. I don't have a job anymore, isn't that  
strange?  
  
I was walking for a half hour earlier and the  
apartment is closer than I thought. He helps me out  
and pays the driver, and I say I'll pay him back, but  
what are the chances I'll ever see this man again?  
It's an empty promise, and he knows it.  
  
"Home," he points out, but I'm not thinking  
rationally.  
  
And suddenly, expectedly, strangely, I'm kissing this  
married stranger in the middle of the street because  
he kissed me. I think it was him, but it could have  
been me. Because tonight I'm going to call my  
parents, apologize, and next week I'll be home again.  
This is not home, I hate New York City, this could  
never be home. This close to him, I can smell cigars  
and women's perfume.  
  
It sparks something. "Politics."  
  
I can't remember if it was the cigars and the  
perfume, or both.  
  
"You're worried about appearances?"  
  
My whole life in New York is appearance. He thinks  
this is my excuse, and maybe it is sometimes. "No,"  
shaking my head, "you mentioned politics."  
  
He huffs and takes a step back from me. Closer to the  
curb, I think he might hail another cab and escape  
this irrational thing between us. "I did," he finally  
admits. I'm denying that part of my psyche.  
  
"What did you mean?" I imagine I'll get around to  
asking why, too.  
  
He shakes his head, and when he smiles his forehead  
creases again. Vaguely familiar. "You don't know who  
I am." His voice mixing it together into neither a  
question nor a statement. Instead, it's a starting  
point for something big.  
  
"No." Then, "Yes." Finally, "Shit."  
  
It is that thing I couldn't put my finger on.  
  
No one says anything. Claudia Jean, my mother would  
say, don't judge a book by its cover. It's debatable  
whether that proverb applies to this situation. I  
take a step away from him, sway a little, and there's  
a jump in his step when he rushes to steady me. It's  
condescending, vaguely; extremely endearing, maybe;  
and irritating.  
  
"Did you follow me?"  
  
"No."  
  
"This was pure coincidence, then?" I notice how  
annoyed I've become, and so does he.  
  
He shrugs. "I guess so."  
  
It's not an acceptable answer, but then I don't have  
one, no one does, so I look at the cracks in the  
sidewalk and try to decide what to do. I keep  
remembering 'obligations' and the way Andy threw that  
word around as justification for firing me. 'You have  
an obligation to this campaign, CJ, and to me.'  
  
I look at Toby. He's got an obligation to Andy, too,  
to his *wife*, but he kissed me first, so does that  
negate my obligation?  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispers.  
  
"Me, too."  
  
It felt so comfortable the first time, so I kiss him  
again. Appearances, be damned.  
  
*  
  
I want to run away to Mexico and go salsa dancing.  
Not that you can't go salsa dancing here in  
Washington, but there's something strangely appealing  
about authentic tequila and hole-in-the-wall hotels  
that makes me want to pack my bags (or not) and go.  
It would certainly be a change from this, though I  
mean that in a good way. If there is a good way of  
running away.  
  
There's this dull pain in my head, but that was to be  
expected, so I take two aspirin and try to  
concentrate. It is to be imagined that the entire  
United States government is nursing a hangover this  
morning; whether they drank to celebrate or drank to  
forget is debatable. Lots of things this morning are  
debatable.  
  
Everyone is moving at a slower pace this morning. No  
sudden movements, no disclosures, no scandals and no  
revelations. Last night was enough.  
  
"You won," and Sam is standing in my doorway without  
so much as a knock. I'd yell -- at him for barging  
in, at Carol for letting him -- but the noise would  
be too much to deal with.  
  
"We won," I correct him. He may be gone come January,  
but he was still a part of this. No need for him to  
be singling himself out now.  
  
He considers this, allowing himself a small smile of  
gratitude. He has to know everyone's going to be on  
eggshells until this is over. "That, that wasn't what  
I was talking about."  
  
This morning's briefing notes contain no surprises.  
"Oh?"  
  
"He drove in with Donna this morning, looking  
decidedly...rumpled."  
  
Mental note to myself: collect creatively on Toby's  
bet.  
  
I smile, and Sam smiles, and then I laugh a little,  
so does he, and soon it's the joke of the morning. It  
feels good to laugh, to pretend that there isn't this  
Sam Seaborn-sized hole opening in our machine.  
  
"What's even better, he smells like Donna's soap." He  
punctuates the statement with a wink, driving the  
subtext home.  
  
I crinkle my nose, amused. "Should I be more  
disturbed that you know what Donna's soap smells  
like, or that you got close enough to Josh to  
notice?"  
  
"Notice what?" Toby asks, magically appearing behind  
Sam.  
  
I gesture and Sam spills, which earns amused eyebrows  
from Toby. He says he only came by to go over  
something before the morning briefing, but he gives  
Sam this knowing expression that makes me wonder if  
he was the reason he found an excuse to wonder over.  
Like me, for all the time this has been setting into  
Toby, I doubt he's processed it as well as he  
pretends.  
  
When Toby leaves, I make Sam sit on the edge of my  
desk, so I can lean in and whisper to him. "You're  
not really leaving us, are you?"  
  
He's embarrassed. "CJ..."  
  
"You know, we could always lock you in a room with  
the President and have him recite various historical  
documents to you, in chronological order and  
translated into any number of archaic languages, one  
by one, until you decide to stay."  
  
Sam stares me down, but he's about to smile. "That's  
harsh, you know that?"  
  
"Hey," and I lean back in my chair with my hands  
behind my head, "it's always worth a try."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind." My expression sours, I  
guess. "Just because I'm representing California  
doesn't mean I'm moving there. I'm just down the  
street now."  
  
I sigh, because he's right. "But you won't be  
*here*."  
  
Sam picks up the telephone and holds it close enough  
so I can hear the dial tone. "These things," he  
shakes the phone a little, "they can work miracles  
for communication things."  
  
I take the phone with a sassy grin, replacing the  
phone with the realization that he's right, again.  
"Just don't underestimate this staff's ability to  
convince you to stay. Because, you know, we're not  
going to let you go without a fight."  
  
He pushes himself off the desk. "I would certainly  
hope not," and he thoroughly believes it, because  
it's true.  
  
He's halfway out the door when he turns, puzzled.  
"Last night. You didn't seem too shocked."  
  
I rise with only a marginal amount of dizziness. I'm  
not surprised he noticed. "I overheard you and Toby  
in his office yesterday."  
  
He nods slowly. "Eavesdropping?"  
  
"Not intentionally," I admit with a smile. He takes  
this, accepting it, but I'm not about to let him  
leave for reasons a psychologist might contemplate.  
Something about not letting go, maybe? "When you run,  
for anything, you know he'd be the first person to  
stand up and call you the most qualified, right?"  
  
Sam nods, and neither of us are talking about the  
President.  
  
Down the hall, I spot a familiar figure emerging from  
his office. Even at the distance, he's keeping his  
eyes low, avoiding the joke.  
  
"Oh, Joshua," I shout.  
  
He's stalking down the hallway. "Don't," he warns,  
"don't start with me."  
  
"Fun night?" I ask with a wink.  
  
"Hilarious, CJ, not to mention extremely original,"  
he sasses.  
  
I pretend to be shocked. "My, someone's cranky."  
  
"No, someone's not *cranky*," and he raises his voice  
so loud I'm sure the President and Leo can hear him,  
"someone's just very annoyed at those in this office  
who would rather *gossip* about where someone spent  
the night than worry about running the United States  
Government! Is everyone clear on that?"  
  
Sam bows his head to hide his laughter; around us,  
eyes have left their work and can't help but stare at  
Josh. His declaration seems to have done more harm  
than good, because I can hear one staffer asking  
another what he's talking about, and that's never a  
good way to quell rumors.  
  
I swallow my amusement. "Crystal clear, Josh."  
  
Later, I walk to the podium with the heavy weight of  
a revelation in my hands. There were reasons for  
keeping this a secret, I keep telling myself,  
political reasons; most specifically a loyal  
Congressman unwilling to let his retirement paint a  
Bartlet staffer as bailing before a race that was too  
close to call.  
  
Today no one in America will really mind that we're  
losing our grease.  
  
I field questions about how the President is feeling,  
because really, it's hard to gage the reaction of  
someone he just learned he's the leader of the free  
world for another four years. I'm half surprised no  
one wants a comment on the rumor that Josh Lyman had  
spent the night somewhere other than his apartment. I  
wait patiently for *the* question, because I leaked  
it just like I was told last night.  
  
Katie's hand goes up after a few rounds. "CJ, can the  
White House elaborate on reports that Sam Seaborn is  
stepping in for the retiring Congressman from  
California?"  
  
It's a buzz, a murmur of shocked reporters, of  
reporters disappointed that they weren't first this  
time. "Mr. Seaborn was approached by Congressman  
Tully one month ago, and he accepted the offer of  
interim appointment, though he has decided to stick  
with us until the inauguration."  
  
From the back, "Has there been talk of a  
replacement?"  
  
Deputy Communications Directors are a rare thing in  
the White House, and most people were aware of  
Bartlet's inventive way of making the younger  
speechwriter something more than simply that. "Not to  
my knowledge, but I do know we've been throwing  
around the idea of cloning for a while now." The  
press corps chuckles at my lame joke, but who could  
replace him?  
  
"CJ, can you tell us how the staff is reacting to the  
news?"  
  
In my left eye, I can see Toby looking on, listening.  
Words, I want to shout, words can't possibly describe  
this hole in us, can't even begin to quantify this  
assumption we've been clinging to for years. How an  
entire staff drank to four more years of Bartlet and  
the departure of Sam Seaborn.  
  
I look at him and he shakes his head, because it's  
that silent communication again and this is his  
reminder of what we talked about. In his eyes, he's  
sorry because he'll miss Sam, too, maybe more than  
anyone else.  
  
"The staff, as well as President Bartlet, is deeply  
saddened by Mr. Seaborn's departure." I hate how it  
sounds. "He put time and thought into his decision,  
and the White House recognizes that, though we hate  
to see him go."  
  
It's the truth, however sterile and devoid of  
emotion; politics is appearance, and we can't be  
weepy. This is a benchmark, a pinnacle, a turning  
point, but someone might call it a chink in our  
armor, and we have an obligation to keep them off our  
backs.  
  
I'm looking at Toby, trying to justify standing here,  
reading that statement that neither wanted to write  
but both of us knew had to be done. I try to decide  
if I can declare today to be Day-After-the-Election  
Fool's Day and take back everything. I can't, though,  
because it's all true, and who would believe us after  
a stunt like that?  
  
I swallow. "I'll take questions from Matt, then  
Arthur, then Susan..."  
  
  
THE END.  
  
(Feedback makes the world go 'round.) 


End file.
